


It's All About The Hair

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That hair.  It's going to be the death of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All About The Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "disheveled"

It all comes down to the hair.

John can resist the big brown eyes, the full lips, the bushy expressive brows. He can look away when Matt starts flailing his arms and waving those long, talented fingers in his face. He can ignore the supple young skin, the long pale line of Matt's torso, the ass that fills out a pair of jeans like there's no tomorrow.

But the fucking hair. It's going to be the death of him.

"—and he thinks there's not a goddamn thing anyone can do," Matt says. " _That's_ why you've gotta help me get him out of office, McClane, because if you think this city is going to the shitter now, wait until you hear what he's got planned for his next term!"

Matt pauses in the hall to pull off his knit cap, turns those soulful eyes to John and takes a breath to continue his diatribe. The snow's been coming down off and on since they left the restaurant, and John's eyes follow the sprinkling of soggy flakes that drift from the cap to land on the hallway runner before tracking back to Matt's face. 

"More tax cuts for the rich," Matt says, "that's one thing. He's already approved city funded bailouts on three corporations whose CEO's – okay, get this McClane –" 

The hair on the top of Matt's head is dry, if sticking out a thousand ways from Sunday from the static electricity when he pulled off the cap. But the hair at the nape of Matt's neck is wet from the melting snow, too-long strands curling against his collar and around the shell of his ear. John curls his fingers into his hands, tries to think about the Knicks just-acquired point guard or the stack of paperwork waiting on his desk from the Mulherin wiretap or-- 

"—whose CEO's took home company bonuses ranking close to a million dollars just last year alone! And do you know where the money for those bailouts was appropriated? I'll tell you where it was appropriated! It came from—" 

\--or anything but the way those darkened strands look against the slim, pale column of Matt's neck, or the other, longer tufts of hair that stand at attention on the top of his head, corkscrewing out every which way and making his hands twitch to smooth them into place.

"—the city's Justice Department budget, okay, the money that you need to put away bad guys! If that doesn't get you going, I don't know what will." Matt pauses, furrows his brow. "Are you listening to me at all, McClane?"

"Nope," John says. He's reaching out before he even knows it, his hand coming down to rest heavily on the crown of Matt's head. He's vaguely aware of the old leather of his jacket creaking when he raises his arm, of taking a step that brings them closer together, of Matt's eyes growing very wide and then closing when his hand sweeps through the strands of dark hair, softer than he imagined. When his thumb brushes the shell of Matt's ear the kid shivers, and when Matt's hand lifts and those long fingers clutch in the lapel of his coat and Matt's lips part it seems the simplest thing in the world to close the remaining distance, to curl his hand beneath that sweep of hair and tug Matt forward the remaining distance and close his own eyes and let his lips meet Matt's. 

When they part, John rests his forehead on Matt's, meets the kid's eyes. "Fucking hair," he grunts.

"Finally!" Matt says. He shakes his head, sending more of that hair flying. "Jesus, McClane, I thought I was going to have to grow it down to my ass before you made a goddamn move."

It's only years of experience on the job that enable John to limit his outward surprise to a jerk of his shoulders and a quirk of his brow. 

"Oh, please," Matt says as though he'd denied it, "as if it wasn't obvious. They always said the way to a man's heart was through his stomach, but with you it was pretty clear right from the start that it was through my hair. I don't really get it, man, it's just _hair_ , but I guess when you don't have… but no, I mean, come on, the way you always start to lean forward to brush it out of my eyes and then you make yourself stop, and the way you always follow my hand when I'm pushing it out of my face, and—"

"Shut up, kid," John says. 

And strangely, when John runs his fingers through Matt's hair again, Matt does. He not only shuts up, but he closes his eyes and arches his back and _hums_.

John thinks he's going to like this new phase of their relationship.


End file.
